GIFT  O 


0-7 


POEMS 


SAMUEL  LOVEMAN 


Cleveland,  O. 
Published  For  The  Author. 
1911 


IN  PIERROT'S  GARDEN 


There's  a  lark  that's  drunken  with  the  daedal  moon, 
And  I  sing  to  the  shy- fledged  singer; 

Lonesomest  thing  in  the  world  but  one, 
He  bids  me  wait  and  linger. 

Hush,  little  brother  your  heart  is  fire, 

Hush,  little  one  and  forget; 
He  will  not  tarry,  but  wings  him  higher, 

And  my  eyes  are  wet,  are  wet. 

II. 

This  is  the  way  the  moon  comes  up 

From  under  the  glimmering  fallow  fields; 

First  but  the  rim  of  a  silver  cup, 

Where  the  farthest  twilight  primrose  yields 

Her  earthly  beauty  up; 

—  3  - 


435384 


And  now  where  the  deep  light  winks  abrim, 
You  can  see  it  flutter  and  fail  for  breath, 
And  a  single  star  falls  rapt  and  dim — 

I  call  it  Death. 

III. 

These  are  my  moths,  a  brooding  slumber 
Falls  from  their  painted  placid  wings, 

The  shifting  dusk  is  white  with  their  number, 
They  stir  to  the  song  one  sings. 

Into  the  heart  of  a  poppy  they  hover, 

Out  of  the  purple  starlit  night ; 
Ah,  they  are  gone  now,  poppy  and  lover — 

I  am  their  short  delight. 

IV. 

Do  you  hear  it? — my  bubbling  nightingale, 
With  a  thousand  notes  to  a  single  trill; 

The  moon  and  the  stars  are  passion-pale, 
Listen  they  must  at  will. 

Sueh  a  world  of  ache,  such  an  ancient  wrong, 
I  have  tried  to  fathom  it  all  forsooth ; 

But  the  deep  night  covers  the  singer  and  song, 
And  youth,  it  cries — youth — youth ! 


V. 

I  wonder  what  the  night  can  hold 
Beyond  the  sea-blue  sloping  boughs, 

The  heart  of  all  the  west  is  gold, 
I  wonder  why  it  glows. 

My  thoughts  lie  heavy  on  my  eyes, 
I  have  so  many  dreams  to  dream, 

So  many  little  fantasies, 
To  solve  and  scheme. 

They  creep  upon  me  unawares, 
They  flutter  in  and  out  my  brain, 

Each  one  finds  housing  in  my  prayers, 
I  hold  them  free  from  stain. 

ODE  TO  DIONYSUS, 
i. 

0  thou,  from  whose  blown  brow  the  vine-leaves  fall, 
Into  thy  beaker  brimmed  with  Attic  wine ; 

At  whose  behest  the  hoofed  Pans  do  call, 

Across  the  curved  pathway  where  thy  shrine 

Lies  swarded  deep  in  arbute-boughs  that  stall 

Linkt  faun  and  satyr,  nymph  and  bacchanal; 


Methinks  I  saw  thee  wind  thy  lovely  way, 

Into  the  wood's  heart  scarce  at  break  of  day, 
Heard  the  shrill  fluting  of  thy  maenads, 

And  glimps'd  thy  dusky  shepherd-lads, 
Purse  their  soft  lips  to  pray. 

II. 
Hither  came  Psyche,  Cupid  by  her  side, 

I  heard  them  whisper  virginal  sweet  vows; 
She  ,pluckt  an  azure  blossom,  dewy-eyed, 

He  bent  to  kiss  her  lips  beneath  the  boughs, 
His  pinions  fluttering  wide. 
Hither  stept  rosy  Dian  from  the  rest, 

To  pledge  her  maidenhood  before  thy  shrine; 
Two  winged  boys  percht  on  each  budding  breast, 

As  chaste  as  Appenine. 
And  all  the  faun-folk,  pouting  lips  awry, 

Entered  the  old  Ephesian  solitude, 
Lingered  a  sweet  space,  then  with  half  a  cry, 

Vanished  into  the  wood. 

III. 
O  fairer  than  the  buds  that  bind  thy  brow! 

0  sweeter  than  the  lips  that  press  thy  own! 

1  will  forsake  all  chances  of  renown, 
And  bear  me  gentle  suppliance  to  thy  vow; 

—  6  — 


Yet  make  me  thine,  and  by  forgotten  rills, 
Down  quiet  fallows  into  shadowing  deeps, 
Where  Love  with  ivied  thyrse  unheeding  keeps 
And  Time  suns  aimlessly — 

Be  mine  the  night  that  laps  the  lonely  hills, 

The  sleep  that  hinges  on  eternity. 

ODE  TO  CERES. 

i. 

Sweet  Mother,  saffron-haired  and  argent-eyed, 

That  holdst  four  seasons  in  thy  mellowing  hand; 
Foison  and  plenty  on  thy  measur'd  side, 

Wisdom  and  warmth  at  thy  uncurbed  command; 
That  with  braced  breath  at  dusky-veined  eve, 

Stirrest  the  furrow  and  the  winnowing  wain, 

What  time  with  fragrant  finger  thou  let'st  fall, 
Soft-shining  from  the  pressure  of  thy  sieve, 
A  dew  ambrosial — 

Bow  thy  dim  head,  withhold  thy  golden  rain. 

II. 
Not  aegis-bearing  Jove  with  gulfy  might, 

Nor  great-eyed  Juno,  deathless  and  divine, 
Hold  half  the  grace,  kind  Mother,  half  the  light, 

Enkindled  in  the  splendour  of  thy  sign; 

—  7  — 


Our  fallows  coucht  with  oxen  serve  thy  haste, 
Consume  them  not  but  lend  thy  pitying  heart; 

Fountful  thy  wheaten  measure,  choose  our  seed, 
And  when  the  north  with  reedy  rein  lays  waste 
Moist  hill  and  ample  mart, 

Shelter  us  with  thy  azure  robe  at  need. 

III. 

0  love  divine!    0  deep  immortal  grief! 

Still  dost  thou  yearn  for  Enna's  dewy  fields? 
Thine,  thine  the  rapture  whence  each  budding  leaf, 

Bespeaks  the  favour  that  thy  blest  bed  yields. 
0  Mother,  great  bright  Mother,  let  thy  light 

Shine  on  us  with  the  wisdom  of  thy  girth, 
Clip  close  our  sheaves,  o'erbrim  our  fruitful  herd 
Sacred  and  silver-bright, 

And  make  and  purge  with  thy  most-weighty  word, 

The  rich  divinity  of  this  swart  earth. 


—  8  — 


FRA  ANGELICO. 

This  is  a  babe  Angelico  painted, 
Red  chubby  cheeks  and  the  daintiest  nose, 

A  flaxen  poll  that  the  years  have  sainted, 
Yet  somehow,  it  glows. 

You  see  the  budding  lips  half  pursed, 

It  seems  but  yesteday  they  smiled, 
Acanthus-like  i'  the  gold  dispersed, 

Eyes  bluely  mild. 

Where  the  sleeve's  frail  hem  slips  down  and  under, 

Ah,  what  a  miracle  of  hands! 
Not  the  slightest  swerve  to  mark  a  blunder, 

Superb  it  stands. 

Did  you  hold  it  perchance  to  your  heart  encrusted, 

You,  Angelico  (Fra  by  grace), 
Till  its  spacious  wisdom  bloomed  and  dusted, 

Some  barren  place? 

—  9  — 


Or,  did  it  creep  unawares  to  your  portal, 
Weed-overgrown  and  gray  in  part, 

Then  with  a  bound  purge  clean  immortal, 
Some  ancient  smart? 

Ah,  Angelico,  life  is  deeper 

Than  ours  the  poet's  hand  can  plumb, 
Bent  that  a  birthright  wakes  the  sleeper, 

Why,  we  know  not,  dumb. 

Only  feel  that  in  spite  of  the  metals, 
Dross  and  the  manifold  slag  that  glows, 

Somewhere  beneath  it  with  perfect  petals, 
Slumbers  a  rose. 

Lippi  would  rim  it  in  lucent  letter, 
Sandro  bejewelled  with  easy  grace, 

But  you,  Angelieo,  saw  it  all  better — 
A  perfect  face. 

SONG. 

Blossoms,  blossoms,  pink  and  white 

Under  the  silver  boughs; 
What  is  it,  reason  or  delight, 

Who  knows,  who  knows  T 
But  your  eased  burden  lies, 
In  our  empty  melodies. 

—   10   — 


DIRGE. 

Close  thine  eyes,  the  night  is  come, 
Leave  the  world 's  desire, 

Kiss  thy  love  ere  thou  lie  dumb, 
Let  none  thy  smart  inquire, 

Fame  and  fortune  are  but  lies, 

Dross,  beside  thy  mistress's  eyes. 

Reap  thy  sowing,  thou  hast  need 
Of  its  decaying  measure, 

Time  will  pluck  it  at  his  heed, 
Grant  it  at  his  leisure. 

All  thy  glories  are  but  one, 

Night  and  deep  oblivion. 

Wrap  thy  sheet  about  thy  head, 
Think  thee  pleasant  dreams, 

All  is  done  that  hath  been  said, 
Life  is  what  it  seems. 

Tho'  thy  sorrow  held  the  sea, 

Lasting  sleep  awaiteth  thee. 

—   11   — 


TO  P.  G. 

There  lies  a  nook  in  the  imminence  of  night, 

Flooded  with  fire  and  dew,  all  lost  delight, 

Things  that  the  iron  world  chose  to  forget, 

There  in  the  pendulous  azure  dusk  are  set ; 

And  grief  that  brimm'd  itself  to  joy  and  wrought 

Happiness  in  the  aching  vast  of  thought, 

Faces  that  glimmering  quiet  acquiesce, 

Knowing  the  end  as  barren  bitterness, 

Anguishing  all,  yet  by  the  ebbed  stars, 

Still 'd  to  the  peace  that  neither  makes  nor  mars. 

This  paradise,  you  see,  is  none  of  mine, 

I  rail  at  all  things,  human  and  divine, 

Half  faun,  half  satyr — shyer  than  those  broods 

That  flit  above  your  moonlit  mountain  woods; 

Confess  me  neither,  dub  me  what  you  will, 

Ixion  sleepless,  Tartarus  baleless,  nill! 

I  miss  your  ministry,  your  patient  laws, 

Impelling  purposes  and  divine  saws, 

Gusty  in  none  but  golden  everywhere, 

Autumn  that  spurs  the  subduance  of  the  year. 

Wiser  than  misty  Spring  whose  violet, 

Plays  Ariel  to  the  delicate  woods  and  wet, 

—   12   — 


Or  Summer,  poppy-bound  with  sultry  fire, 
Ruining  glitter,  wandering  feet  that  tire. 
You,  who  would  fathom  better  things  in  me, 
Than  the  dull  moan  of  bowed  humanity, 
Who  glimpse  the  beauty  that  my  aims  would  strive, 
The  winged  spirit  and  the  darkling  gyve, 
Unutterable  loveliness  and  love, 
Life  trembling  lest  her  bliss  of  wonder  more, 
And  in  the  veined  marble  of  my  rhyme, 
See  the  unwinnowing  temper  hued  by  time; 
I  take  my  cue,  and  in  your  equal  trust, 
Hapen  a  roseal  splendour  from  the  dust. 

—July  31,  1911. 

LINES. 

I  know  no  light  beyond  the  night, 

I  see  no  star  to  pierce  the  star, 
But  still 'd  and  windless  in  my  sight, 

There  pass  the  dreams  that  once  were  fair. 

Oh!  to  have  known  and  lost  all  this, 

The  brimming  youth,  the  joy  to  reap, 
And  in  its  stead  a  transient  bliss, 

To  drift  in  unforgetting  sleep. 

April  20,  1911. 

—   13   — 


To  toil  with  fools,  to  drudge  with  slaves 
And  keep  above  them  giant-wise; 

To  know  the  world  is  full  of  knaves, 
Yet  deem  it  but  one's  miseries. 

Heine,  thy  spirit  I  invoke, 

Blood  of  one  blood,  our  race  divine, 

Invest  me  with  thy  glittering  yoke, 
Poison  me  with  thy  fairy  wine. 

Give  me  to  know  the  world  as   't  is, 

Bereft  of  joy  and  bitter-bare, 
And  leave  me  in  my  dreams  but  this, 

The  gift  of  beauty  everywhere. 

May  30,  1911. 

A  TWENTY-SECOND  BIRTHDAY. 

.One  last  sweet  look  at  boyhood's  fledgeling  gleam, 
A  mutinous  onset  on  the  rapt  sea-marge; 
I  must  not  falter  in  my  destin'd  dream, 
I  must  not  tarry  for  the  day  is  large. 
So  much  defected,  so  much  to  redeem, 
The  sleep  that  circles  in  our  wearied  eyes, 
The  love  that  clutches  at  old  memories, 
How  can  I  grasp  it  all,  the  subtle  scheme? 

—   14   — 


Only  the  beauty  of  the  fluttering  light 
That  each  divining  loveliness  forbears, 
This,  lest  oblivion  creep  upon  and  smite 
Our  nature  with  the  sanctity  of  tears — 
Blind,  groping  children  of  inevitable  night, 
That  spins  its  fabric  on  our  inverse  prayers. 

FROM  HEINE 

L 

Shadow-loves  and  shadow-kisses, 
Shadow-life — 0  sweet,  sweet,  sweet! 
Did  you  think  that  all  your  blisses 
Would  not  fleet? 

Those  we  love  and  fain  would  cherish 
Vanish  like  the  dreamful  past, 
And  the  heart  itself  must  perish 
And  the  eyelids  close  at  last. 

II. 

The  world  is  so  sweet 
And  the  sky  is  so  blue, 
The  roses  are  drunken 
With  dreamless  dew — 
Yet  I  would  be  at  rest 
On  some  dead  love's  breast. 

—  15  — 


in. 

The  roses  bud  and  blossom, 

And  wither  on  the  heath; 
They  bud  and  blossom  and  wither 

And  that's  the  way  of  death. 

I  know  this  and  all  my  pleasure, 

Loses  its  love  and  zest, 
My  heart  is  so  bright  and  witty, 

And  yet  it  bleeds  in  my  breast. 

IV. 
My  songs,  my  songs  are  poison 'd, 

How  could  it  be  otherwise? 
You  have  poured  your  glowing  venom 

Into  their  melodies. 

My  songs,  my  songs  are  poison  M, 
How  could  it  be  otherwise? 

My  heart  holds  many  serpents 
And  your  sweet  eyes. 

V. 

Death  is  the  cool  sweet  night,  they  say, 
And  life  but  the  breath  of  a  sultry  day; 
It  darkens  and  sleep  has  come  desired, 
The  day  has  made  me  tired. 

—  16  — 


Over  my  bed  thro'  the  treetops  pale, 
I  hear  the  song  of  a  nightingale, 
She  sings,  she  sings  of  love  and  laughter, 
I  listen,  but  the  tears  come  after. 

VI. 
DM. 

I  am  the  Princess  Ilse, 

And  I  live  at  Ilseustein; 
0  come  with  me  to  my  palace, 

And  you  shall  be  only  mine. 

Over  my  snow-white  shoulders, 

And  by  my  ivory  side, 
You  shall  love  to  the  world's  end 

Whatever  the  woe  betide. 

And  I  shall  love  you  and  kiss  you, 
And  love  you  and  kiss  you  again, 

As  I  did  to  the  Emperor  Heinrich, 
That  princeiiest  of  men. 

The  dead  are  dead  forever, 

And  only  the  living  live, 
But  I  am  youth  and  beauty, 

Eternal  the  joy  I  give. 

—  17  — 


And  only  my  arms  shall  enfold  you, 

And  only  your  lips  shall  know, 
What  I  did  to  the  Emperor  Heinrich, 

When  he  heard  his  trumpets  blow. 

OEDIPUS  AT  COLONUS. 

Who  rose  like  shadows  between  man  and  God. 

—Shelley. 
Oedipus 
Who  comes? 

Antigone 
Haemon,  my  lord. 

Oedipus 

Make   fast   the   door. 

There's  terror  in  the  barren  wind  tonight, 
Our  privacy's  unsur'd. 

Haemon 

Not  as  A  foe — 

Oedipus 

But  like  the  cormorant  and  musing  owl 
That  feign  a  prayer  in  slayng.  Hence,  away! 
There  are  no  kin  where  beggary  sits  scant 
And  suffers  for  a  pittance. 

Antigone 

A  true  friend. 

Whose  heart  stood  ever  on  the  fallen  side 
And  priveleged  the  losing.     He  brings  news, 
Good  news,  we  trust,  to  make  ill  fortune  sweet, 

—  18  — 


Oedipus 

But  quick,  or  ere  our  ruined  thoughts  forget. 

Haemon 

0  good  my  Lord,  the  princes  both  are  slain, 
Fall'n  in  a  quarrel  fostered  by  the  king; 
The  eldest  lies  unburied. 

Antigone 

Patience,  Gods! 

Lest  I  lose  hope.  This  is  the  flaw  that  coils 
Our  searching  patent.    Oh!  he  weeps  not  yet, 
But  stirr'd  by  the  extremity  of  ache, 
Holds  the  dew  scathless. 

Oedipus 
Something  there  cracks  within! 

Haemon 

Courage,  good  friends,  for  of  the  moving  kind, 
These  are  but  bolts  that  shoot  invisibly. 

Oedipus 

Girl,  hast  thou  fed  them  yett 
Antigone 

My  Lord,  my  Lord! 

Oedipus 

The  poor,  the  poor,  that  with  unvised  mouths, 
The  piteous  air  importunate  and  load. 
I  would  have  'em  all,  all  fed. 

—  19  — 


Antigone 

He  only  hears. 

Pledges  that  follow  like  the  sweet  south  wind 
And  leave  no  wake  in  peering.  Father,  father! 
0  grief-recounted  heart  that  bleeds  to  fix 
A  finger  on  earth's  cheapened  misery. 
Poor  seared  eyes! 

Oedipus 

Let  me  be  filial  censor. 

Swear,  there  are  no  more  honest  men  i'  the  world, 

Swear,  that  the  best  of  us  will  err,  lie,  thieve, 

Throttle  the  mother's  milk,  convent  such  crime 

And  serious  depredation  of  regard, 

That  heaven  stooping  to  the  lips  of  hell, 

Breathe  dross 'd  and  vary-hued.    Swear,  swear,  swear! 

Antigone 

Still! 

You  drift  on  passion's  sea,  that  bears  a  host 
Of  wrecks  precipitate  and  viewless  craft. 
Take  trust  and  anchor,  all  things  work  to  good, 
We  cease  not  to  believe  in  miracles. 

Oedipus 

How?  how?  we  shall  have  cause  for  joy  full  soon, 
Sorrow  comes  after.    Let  there  be  all  things  said 
And  nothing  done.    Look  you,  I  am  not  vile, 
Only  incapable  of  making  good 
Half-blown  offenses  and  their  chariest  truths. 
0  monstrous!  monstrous!  I  that  feel,  fawn,  feed, 
To  call  my  brother  clod  to  the  dull  earth, 
And  tread  him  as  we  do  the  brooded  worm. 

—  20  — 


I  am  well  paid — well  paid,  I  say!  no  need 
To  bare  myself  to  the  annealing  wind 
And  beg  for  penitence  a  wintry  shift, 
The  quick  confusion  of  our  bitter  bliss 
Signs  chaos  into  surety  again — 
I  shall  sleep  the  long  night  out  at  last. 

Antigone 

No!  No! 
Not  yet!    I'm  all  alone  in  the  world. 

Oedipus 

Soft,  soft! 

The  little  children  call  me  from  the  dark, 
Eteocles  and  Polynices — sons  all, 
I  held  them  dandled  at  my  naked  knee, 
And  suckt  fond  kisses  from  their  cherub  lips, 
But  none  of  them  would  come,  none  to  help  bear, 
My  whole  world's  weight  of  leaden  misery. 

Antigone 

Stay  quenchless,  eyes,  until  we  weep  our  fill, 
My  lord,  I  did  not  leave  you,  I— I  came. 

Oedipus 

The  mist  between  us  works  a  deadly  bar! 

I  would  see  sweet  eyes,  know  many  numerous  things, 

And  let  graced  wit  my  madness  overblaze. 

Comfort  me,  comfort  me! 

Antigone 

I  do,  but  0! 
My  heart's  top-heavy. 

—  21  — 


Oedipus 

Steep  it  in  molten  brine. 
And  let  there  be  a  new  dependency 
To  breed  quarled  serpents.    Beggar  thy  loveliness! 
Thy  soul's  the  cistern,  at  the  bottom  lies 
Their  golden  custom's  vital  esquiry. 
Alas!  alas!  I  am  so  wretched,  wretched — 
The  end  discrowns  our  need. 

Antigone 

Sigh   hush,   and   sleep. 
What  use  to  war  with  gods? 

Oedipus 

With  my  spent  power, 
And  from  my  degradation's  dying  stamp, 
What  though  I  reck  their  fleecy  thunderous  hail, 
I  curse — I  curse — 

Antigone 

Woe's  me!  leave  it  unsaid. 

Oedipus 

The  butterfly  that  scaped  the  crawling  stage! 
Be  as  thou  ever  wast,  best  of  thy  kind, 
Kiss  me — I  face  the  dark — what,  what,  what,  what! 
It  breaks — 

Dies. 

Haemon 

Our  jove-like  souls  are  instruments 
That  quaver  sometime  in  their  playing.     Rest, 
Life's  but  a  moment's  space  of  wilderment, 
Set  in  a  sudden  darkness.    There's  the  sway 
That  profits  by  no  fortune. 

22  


Antigone 

Done's  the  dream. 

I  close  thine  eyes,  I  smooth  thy  stricken  brow, 
Tenderly  gods,  the  fault  was  not  his  own. 

Haemon 

Where  now,  Antigone? 

Antigone 

To  Thebes,  my  lord. 
Haemon 

The  king  gainsays  all  kindness  in  his  mood, 

His  heart  of  stone  derides  that  flawless  gem 

That  burns  in  freezing.    Measure  your  life  with  mine, 

I  mean  the  intent,  and  let  our  fortunes  be 

One  and  commingled.    It  may  hap  that  both 

Shall  find  some  purpose  meet. 

Antigone 

My  duty  first. 

The  falcon  we  have  strook  deserves  perforce, 
Such  pity  that  the  clouded  heart  can  give. 
We  yoke  our  sorrows  to  the  midnight  stars, 
And  take  their  weight  in  silver. 

Haemon 

Ah,  not  so. 

To  dare  the  omnipotence  of  the  Gods, 
And  leap  within  their  golden  gracicusness, 
This  were  most  nobly  done.    But  where  the  vow, 
Lessens  itself  upon  the  deeded  heart, 
Were  it  not  wise,  think  you  Antigone, 
To  rear  and  love  self  first? 

—  23  — 


Antigone 

My  hand  alone 

Must  pile  the  laurel  on  his  unbalmed  corse, 
And  kiss  the  ghastly  death-dew  from  his  eyes. 
I  were  not  woman  else. 

Haemon 

Then  hear  the  truth. 

Our  father's  edict  harbours  instant  death, 
With  no  more  pity  than  the  viewless  air, 
That  slays  with  kissing  honey. 

Antigone 

0  just  Gods! 

Make  me  unalterable  to  the  end. 
Not  fire,  nor  famine,  and  the  halter's  scourge, 
Swerve  my  set  cause,  but  when  the  work  is  done, 
Give  my  grief  rein  to  moum  the  dear  departed, 
And  dew  their  noble  memory  in  tears. 
Lie  low!  lie  sweet!  others  have  done  the  same, 
That  drew  not  half  the  penance,  summ'd  not  all 
Commitment  on  their  head,  but  as  it  is, 
We  thank  the  smiling  Gods. 

Haemon 

Then  take  me  with  thee, 
And  come  what  may,  I'll  follow  in  thy  steps, 
The  sea  runs  on  forever. 

Antigone 

Like  our  souls, 

That  ebb  and  break.    I  go  alone,  my  Lord. 
Farewell,  farewell. 

Haemon 
Love  speed  you. 

—  24  — 


NON-CIRCULATING  BOOK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


